


The Worst I Ever Had

by justlikesomuch



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Keepin’ It 1600 Era, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV Tommy, Pining, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-13 11:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18468310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikesomuch/pseuds/justlikesomuch
Summary: Tommy hasn’t spoken to Lovett since they hooked up one night in D.C. three years ago. Now they’re recording a podcast together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hopefor46](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopefor46/gifts).



> What an honor to create a story for one of my favorite writers in the fandom! I hope you like it. 
> 
> Thank you to persuna for catching my errors and making this better with your feedback. 
> 
> As always, this is completely fictional and not meant for public consumption.
> 
> *****

“Okay, so here’s what happened.” Emily’s coworker’s roommate’s sister leans in toward Tommy, her voice dropping to a just-between-us volume that excludes the rest of the crowded WeHo restaurant. Tommy nods and rests his forearms on the table.

“I was at this guy’s apartment for the first time. He asked if I wanted to watch a movie, and I was like great, let’s definitely move this to the couch.” She waggles her eyebrows mock-suggestively at Tommy in a way that reminds him of something he can’t place. His heart gives a promising little clench.

“Here’s the thing about me,” she continues. “Sometimes, when I’m really scared? I pee in my pants.”

She pauses her story and looks up at Tommy. “This is definitely bad first date material, but oh well.”

She’s very cute. He can handle it.  

“I can handle it. So what happened?”

“He suggested some movie with artsy title I’d never heard of. I assumed it was an indie romcom or something. A normal date movie. By the the time I realized it was a horror film, it was too late.” She grimaces at Tommy.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“So you got scared and you, uh, pissed yourself?” This is genuinely mortifying territory. He likes that she’s confident enough to talk about it. He never would be.

“I did!” She covers her face. “Peed right through my pants! Spared his couch, thankfully.”

“At least there’s that.” Tommy wonders what he would do in her position. He’d probably make an excuse and get out as quickly as possible. “So what did you do?”

“What _could_ I do? I told him what had happened before he could discover it for himself.” She shrugs and picks at her appetizer.

“How did he take it?” If he were the guy in that situation, Tommy likes to think he’d be cool about it.

“Surprisingly well, very nonchalant. But that,” she jabs her fork in the air for emphasis, “is where things started to really go downhill.”

“What? No!” Tommy starts laughing. “How much lower could you go?”

She closes her eyes for a moment, like she’s back in the memory. “He offered to lend me pants, which was a little weird because he was like, a big guy, and I’m, you know,” she gestures to her delicate frame.

“But okay,” she says, “I thought maybe I could borrow some sweats from him or whatever. Maybe it would even be kind of sexy, because I like this guy, and now I would have an excuse to be in touch again, like, hi, I have to return your pants.”

“Solid move.”

“Right?” She grins at Tommy. “But then he showed me this drawer in his dresser, a whole entire drawer filled with women’s clothes: pants, shirts, UNDERWEAR.”

“What? Was it his stuff?” Tommy hopes that wasn’t the disqualifying issue; she seems like a cool person.

“No no nooooo, it was all really petite clothes. Cute stuff, actually, but obviously not stuff he could fit into. So I just looked at him, like,” she bugs her eyes at Tommy. “Like explain yourself, my man. And then he said . . .”

“Yeah?”

“He said that his ex left all this stuff when she moved out, and _I’m about her size.”_ She pounds the table lightly, punctuating her tale of woe.

“Yikes,” wheezes Tommy, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Thank you!” She throws up her hands triumphantly. “He said this completely without shame! Like, do you think it’s normal to keep a lending library of girl clothes in case your hookup needs to change her pants? What? Donate that shit, dude!”

“Wow.” Tommy’s cheeks hurt from laughing. “So, did you borrow something? Take the opportunity to refresh your wardrobe?”

“No I did NOT.” She glares at him comically. From a certain angle, she almost looks like—

“I got out of there immediately  and didn’t see him again. Does that sound harsh? Whatever, I don’t care. If you’re hanging onto someone’s clothes, are you really ready to let go?”

“I guess not.” That gives him a little twinge, and Tommy wonders, briefly, what he might be hanging onto.

Their entrees arrive, and they eat in friendly silence for a few minutes.

“You know what this conversation reminds me of,” she says. “You know that podcast?”

“Oh! My friend has a podcast! About politics, the election.”

“Cool,” she says. “But like, you know that one where people tell their dating disaster stories? You know the one I mean? The host is a sitcom writer, she’s got a scratchy voice?”

“I don’t think I do. I’m just sort of starting to get into podcasts.” Tommy feels every one of their ten years’ age difference.

“You should check this one out, it’s such a satisfying listen. The Worst I Ever Had, that’s what it’s called.”

“I’ll look for it,” he says, although he’s not sure he could stand all that secondhand embarrassment.

“So, what about you,” she says, reaching over to scoop a spoonful from Tommy’s quinoa bowl. What’s your worst date?”

“Hmm,” Tommy considers, “I’ve been pretty lucky in that regard, no major trauma.”

She looks disappointed, so he gives it some more thought. He could tell her about—is he ready to talk about that? Maybe. There’s something familiar about her that sets him at ease and makes him feel like opening up. The date’s going really well. He’s glad he finally let Emily set him up.

“Okay, mine is, uh, mine is not quite that dramatic or that … creepy, but it’s probably the most humiliating thing that’s ever happened to me.”

She looks at him expectantly and gestures with her drink for him to go on.

“So back when I lived in D.C., I had this hopeless crush on my roommate.”

“Oof, been there,” she says.

“Yeah, it was pretty awful. We were really good friends, spent a lot of time together at work and at home. Lots of mutual friends, that kind of thing. And I was not at all subtle about it. I’m sure it was pretty obvious to everyone—all our friends, our other roommates, definitely to him.”

He glances up to see how the pronoun lands with her. But she just nods for him to keep telling his story.

“But like, that was around the time I was just starting to figure out that I was bi. Am bi,” he corrects. “I had only ever dated women at that point. So I was just sort of mixed up, and I never did anything about my feelings for him.”

She nods, chin in hand. She is looking at him with kindness, as though this is a totally normal way to bring up the topic of his sexuality, and not some extremely indirect cowardly shit.

“And then he, uh, he moved away. He left D.C. and went to L.A.” Tommy takes a bite of his meal. It was a bad choice to order grains and legumes on a date; there’s too much chewing required.

“So then what?” She asks, probably impatient for him to get to the humiliating part. He’s being so boring. He wishes he could tell a story dramatically the way she does, the way . . .

“Uh, so he left town, and I was a mess. Filled with regret and listening to a bunch of mopey songs and thinking about all the missed opportunities in my life.”

“Relatable,” she says.

Tommy smiles, grateful.“So when he came back to visit a few months later, I finally made a move. We went out with friends, and it was, it was really good being with him again. But it was also bittersweet, because I missed him so much, you know?”

Her eyes are soft with understanding. Tommy wishes she wouldn’t look at him so intently. He liked it better when he was the one listening. He usually does.

“So when we got back to my place, where he was staying, I went for it. I kissed him. I just, I said, ‘I think you’re really cute,’ and I kissed him.”

Tommy’s not sure he can talk about the next part, but it feels okay so far. “So then we, uh, we hooked up, and immediately I realized it couldn’t just be a hookup for me.”

“No, of course not.”

“Yeah, it was really intense. I’d liked him for so long, and all this, all the longing and pining was just spilling out of me, and I couldn’t stop it, and I wanted to like, share all this, I mean, I guess, love. I wanted him to know. I wanted to show him that I loved him.”

“Wow,” she says, sounding like she has questions. Tommy has questions, too, but no access to the answers.

He finishes his drink and looks around for their server. “Is this a weird thing to share on a first date?”

She quirks her mouth. “Weirder than peeing on some stalker’s couch?”

“Fair enough,” says Tommy. “Anyway.”

“Anyway.”

“One thing I was sure about, as soon as I kissed him, is that he felt the same way I did. Like, we didn’t talk about it, really, and we were both kind of drunk.” He thinks he sees her barely suppress an eye roll, but he goes on. “There was this connection between us. Like we both knew it meant something. It felt like . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Like a beginning.”

“So then what happened?” She leans toward him with interest. Tommy recognizes, with a sinking feeling, that the interest is more pitying than flirtatious. He can’t blame her, honestly.

He sighs. “I woke up the next morning like, so happy, you know? He was awake already, I could hear him in the kitchen, talking to my other roommate. And I was like, we’ll spend the day together, I’ll drive him to the airport. But then, as I was going downstairs to the kitchen, I overheard him, I heard him say . . .”

Tommy stops. He can’t quite get the next part out. “You know what, I don’t really want to talk about the rest. Suffice it to say, he made it clear that we were not on the same page.”

“Ugh, that’s brutal.” She is cringing on his behalf, and it doesn’t feel great. “So did you go back to being friends?”

“Actually, no, um. I couldn’t really face him after he rejected me, so I kind of blew him off, ignored his texts.” She raises her eyebrows, and Tommy hears the way that sounds.

“I know, not the most mature course of action.” He should salvage this if he doesn’t want to hear from Emily about it. He smiles at her, hoping charm can offset all the red flags he’s surely waving at her. “I’ve gotten a lot better about that kind of stuff since then.”

He thinks that’s probably true. He hopes it’s true.

“We actually never spoke again. He went back to L.A., and that was it.”

“Oh wow,” she says, “So you never really resolved it?”

Fuck. “Nope.”

“Don’t you miss him? You were such good friends.”

He can’t think about that. He won’t.

“Of course. All the time.” He scrubs his hand over his face. “Sorry, that got kind of heavy.” He tries the charming smile again, but it feels forced.

“Do you think you’ll ever see him again?”

“Yeah, so that’s the funny thing.” He laughs, but there’s no warmth in it. “Well, not funny, but—so remember I told you my friend has a podcast?”

***

“Which one, do you think?” Tommy holds up the two blue button-downs he brought with him to L.A.

“Well,” says Jon, giving Tommy a pleased, sleepy-eyed grin, “podcasting is a highly visual medium, so . . .”

“Fuck off,” Tommy says amiably. “I’ll ask Emily.”

Jon shrugs. “Too late for that. She already left for work. We gotta go too if we don’t want to miss our recording time.”

“Lovett’s meeting us at the studio?” Tommy aims for a casual tone and misses considerably.

“Yep,” says Jon, fixing him with a considering look that’s too thoughtful for Tommy’s comfort.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Jon grabs his keys and motions for Tommy to follow him out to the car.

Lovett is there when they arrive. Tommy spots him through the large window of the studio, and his stomach twists.

Lovett is already settled in to record. He’s seated in front of a microphone, gesturing animatedly to a woman in the production booth. She is laughing so hard at whatever he’s saying that tears are actually streaming down her cheeks. Lovett used to make Tommy laugh like that.

The table in front of Lovett is already scattered with detritus and personal effects: a can of Diet Coke _and_ a Venti Starbucks cup half-filled with melting ice; an iPhone in a bright orange case; a keyring with a tiny abacus and a ridiculously large number of keys; a pile of shredded tissues and a wadded-up Shake Shack wrapper; a purple dog leash (Lovett has a dog?); a single slice of birthday cake on a paper napkin.

The D.C. apartment was always scattered with those little piles of stuff, unmistakable evidence of Lovett’s presence. His habits drove Tommy crazy when they were roommates, but he oddly missed that clutter when Lovett moved out. The house felt too sterile, even though it was filled with people.

“Gentlemen! How kind of you to join us,” Lovett snarks as they enter the studio. “Lisa and I decided that I’m the host of Keepin’ It 1600 from now on.”

“Cool, cool,” says Jon. “I’ll let Pfeiffer know.”

“Ugh, never mind,” says Lovett. “He’ll never accept my dominion.”

“He doesn’t enable you like I do,” says Jon. “Adjust your mikes, guys, we need to get started.”

Tommy slides into the seat next to Lovett, who turns to look at him for the first time. “Hey Tommy!”

Damnit. He had hoped the sound of Lovett saying his name wouldn’t still work on him like that, but it’s the same as it always was.

Tommy’s face feels hot as Lovett’s eyes travel over him, taking him in. He’s glad he went with the blue striped shirt, which he thinks he looks better in. Not that it matters what Lovett thinks of how he looks. Not that it matters what he thinks of him at all anymore.

“Lovett,” says Jon, “how do you want me to introduce you, like as a . . . writer, or . . .”

“You should say I’m a straight shooter, widely respected on both sides.”

“I’m not saying that,” Jon says.

Lovett rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll introduce myself.”

Tommy takes advantage of this distraction to get a better look at Lovett. He looks—he looks good, tanned and relaxed. He never looked relaxed in D.C.

Some part of Tommy was hoping that Lovett would be different, that he would seem like a stranger after three years out of Tommy’s life, but no such luck. Lovett has gained weight, and his hair has grown out in soft curls, but he’s still fully his distracting and frustrating self. Worse for Tommy, he’s gotten even cuter.

Lovett always hated being called cute, said it was patronizing. Tommy gets that, he does. It’s not easy to be a small guy, probably. Tommy used to do it just to piss Lovett off. He loved to make him mad, to set him off and watch him go. The best part was when Lovett would start to giggle at how hard Tommy was laughing. In those moments, Tommy could barely stand the fondness and tension stretching between them.

“Tom,” Jon breaks in, “stop zoning out. Let’s start.”

It feels stiff at first, the dynamic among the three of them. Maybe it’s because of his unaddressed history with Lovett, or the time that’s passed since they were all together. Maybe it’s just awkward to chat with your friends in front of microphones. Tommy tries to be aloof and professional, but it’s hopeless—Lovett gets him cracking up right away.

Tommy tries to show off all his pre-taping research, and Lovett ribs him about it. It feels like the old days, when Lovett’s teasing would make him flush with with embarrassment and affection. That was before everything went to hell between them. At least here in the studio with Jon as a buffer, Tommy can pretend to step back into that easy camaraderie, the three of them chatting about current events like nothing has changed.

***

It turns out that Emily’s coworker’s roommate’s sister does not want to go out with Tommy again. No surprise there. It’s generally bad form to turn a first date into a therapy session. He just hopes he doesn’t supplant The Clothes Hoarder as her worst dating story.

At least Tommy got a solid podcast recommendation out of the experience. He works his way through old episodes of The Worst I Ever Had over the weeks that he travels from San Francisco to L.A. and back again, joining Jon and Lovett for podcast recordings and livestreams.

The guests on The Worst share stories of disastrous sexual encounters, of fiancés who turned out to be sociopaths, and all kinds of romantic peril and catastrophe.

The stories are terrible and cringe-inducing. That’s the pleasure of listening, the chance for Tommy to commiserate and feel guiltily relieved that these things happened to someone else.

It’s not lost on Tommy, though, that all these poor suckers are also taking chances at happiness that he just isn’t. While his career has been a series of adventures that led him to the fucking White House, his love life is all excessive caution and words left unsaid.

Without any romantic prospects, and with consulting work keeping him busy but unsatisfied, recording Keepin’ It 1600 is a bright spot. Even when he stays in San Francisco and calls into the pod, it’s the best part of Tommy’s week.

He knows it’s partly because he's back in Lovett’s orbit. This time, he’s determined to enjoy being friends and spending time together, determined to not think about everything he wants from Lovett.

It’s clear now how Lovett feels about him, so Tommy can just appreciate being with him without going warm when their eyes meet, without thrilling at how Lovett goes quiet when Tommy bosses him around, without noticing how Lovett’s shirt clings to his—

His feelings ruined things with Lovett once, and that’s one time too many. Tommy needs Lovett in his life, in any way that may be. He won’t screw it up this time.

***

His resolve lasts a few months. They all grab dinner one night after a livestream, and Emily joins them. The cheerful banter of the recording session spills over into appetizers and drinks. Lovett keeps picking off Tommy’s plate. He’s in top form, eyes shining. Jon and Emily can’t stop laughing at everything Lovett says. Tommy leans back and watches them, feeling calm and happy in a way he never experiences in San Francisco.

Jon and Emily have to take off early, so Lovett offers to take Tommy back to their place later. They get more drinks, and they share some chocolate thing that Tommy orders because Lovett won’t.

“Ugh, Tommy, why are you letting me eat this? If Emily were still here, she wouldn’t let me destroy myself this way.” He glares at Tommy, shoving a small forkful of dessert into his mouth. He closes his eyes with pleasure for a moment, then sighs and pushes the tiny plate across the table to Tommy.

“Good thing she’s gone, then,” Tommy says quietly, “because you look like you’re enjoying yourself.” What the fuck is he doing. Truly. What the fuck.

Lovett swallows and at looks down at his hands. “My diet,” he says.

“Fuck your diet,” says Tommy, firmly pushing the plate back to him.

Lovett snorts. “Easy for you to say, Mr. I Left the White House and Now I’m Smart and Handsome _and_ I Have Muscles.”

“I think you look—“

Lovett looks up at him quickly. Oh no.

“Yeah? How do I look, Tommy?”

“I like it,” Tommy says stupidly, helplessly. “I like the way you look. It’s, for me it’s—good.”

“I see,” says Lovett, holding his gaze. “Let’s go home,” Lovett says after a pause, putting down his fork with a clink. “I’m all worn out from dispensing political wisdom.”

Tommy finishes the last of his beer and motions for the check.

***

Back in Lovett’s driveway, they sit in the parked car, neither of them speaking.

“Do you think—“ Lovett says, just as Tommy blurts out, “I’ve missed this.”

“What?” Lovett definitely doesn't sound like he’s about to let him down gently, and it fills Tommy with foolish courage.

“You. I missed you.” Tommy wishes he could sound more casual about it. He can’t quite bring his voice under control, can’t adopt the even, impassive delivery he’s cultivated for work. Like so many of his defenses, that one never quite stands up to Lovett’s—to Lovett.

“I was going to say,” Lovett starts again, turning to look at him.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think,” Lovett says carefully, “Do you think it’s still a terrible mistake if you acknowledge that you know it’s a terrible mistake before you do it? Like—“

Tommy is kissing him before he even realizes he is going to, twisting across the driver’s side to hold Lovett’s face in his hands. He pulls back and looks at Lovett.

Lovett leans back and regards him for a moment, eyes wide, and then he—he just launches himself at Tommy, grabbing at his shoulders, clambering onto Tommy’s lap with surprising agility.

His mouth is hot and perfect and Tommy holds onto him desperately, as though he might bolt at any minute. But Lovett doesn’t bolt. He just rests his forehead against Tommy’s, his eyes pressed closed, his breath coming out shaky.

Tommy surges up to kiss him again, fisting a hand in Lovett’s curls and running another down his back. Lovett moans as Tommy grabs his ass and pulls him close, so that there is no space between them. Lovett rocks against him, and Tommy is gratified to feel how hard he is.

He rests his cheek on Lovett’s chest and tries to catch his breath. Lovett’s heart hammers against his temple.

“Lovett,” Tommy mumbles into Lovett’s impossibly soft t-shirt, “Ask me to come inside.”

Lovett reaches for Tommy’s chin and tilts his face up to look at him. He smiles, but his expression is sad. He kisses Tommy again, quick and dry, and then ably contorts himself back into the driver seat.

“Go back to Jon’s, Tommy,” he says, without looking at him.

“Lovett,” he says, and it sounds distressingly like pleading.

“Go to bed. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Tommy grabs his messenger bag from the back seat and lets himself out of the car. He stands next to the car for a moment, wondering what he should do. Lovett stays seated, staring straight ahead. Tommy leans down and raps his knuckle on the passenger-side window.

Lovett looks up at him, and Tommy gives a ridiculous little wave good night, which he instantly regrets. Lovett nods and responds with a little closed-mouth smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Tommy turns and crosses the street. He lets himself into the Favreaus’ house with his spare key and makes his way to the guest room as quietly as he can. He flops down on the guest bed and tries to distract himself with Twitter, but he just ends up reading through Lovett’s old tweets.

He tries to read the book he brought with him, but he finds himself reading the same paragraph three times, and throws it down in frustration.

An hour later, he’s still awake, doing sit-ups, when, his phone buzzes.

_I can’t sleep._

_Same,_ Tommy replies, smiling. He hasn’t even bothered getting undressed.

_You can come over._

He “can” come over. Not “should” or “please” or—fuck it. Tommy rushes out of the house and across the street before Lovett can change his mind. Lovett lets him into the dark living room. He’s wearing a big shirt and boxers. He looks tiny, and Tommy wants to scoop him up and eat him.

“I thought you said this was a terrible idea,” Tommy says.

“Yeah, well,” Lovett sighs, pulling Tommy close. “That’s kind of my speciality.

“Lucky me,” says Tommy, and kisses him, deep and desperate, like he’s falling into him. As if he had any choice.

“Tommy, Tommy,” Lovett breathes in between kisses. If it felt good to hear Lovett say his name in the studio, the sound of it now sets him entirely on fire. He tries to ignore the note of resignation he hears in Lovett’s voice.

“Tommy,” Lovett says. “Listen, no morning-after freakouts this time,” he murmurs, as he works his hands under Tommy’s shirt.

“Okay,” says Tommy, wishing he could trust that to be true. At least this time, he’s ready for Lovett to regret his choice. He won’t be caught off guard.

***

Lovett’s L.A. bedroom is less of a disaster than it was when he lived with Tommy. There is still an alarming number of empty Diet Coke cans, but at least they’re mostly concentrated around Lovett’s desk and near his garbage can.

There appear to be clean sheets on the bed, and a surprisingly nice duvet.

“That’s a surprisingly nice duvet,” says Tommy.

“Shut up,” says Lovett.

Tommy pulls Lovett’s shirt over his head, and then yanks his shorts down and off. Lovett is no help at all. He keeps distracting Tommy in every way possible. His hands roam over Tommy’s body, grasping at his shoulders, his biceps, his hips.

He hooks a leg around Tommy’s and drops kisses along his jaw, down his neck. All the time, he keeps up a little murmur-chant of “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy,” like a mantra that serves to calm no one at all.

Tommy picks him up and wrestles him onto the bed, so that he’s on his back. Tommy kneels by the side of the bed, still fully dressed. He rests his hands on Lovett’s bare parted thighs and just takes in the sight of him.

Lovett is propped up on his elbows, watching Tommy. Holding eye contact is too much for him, so he turns his attention to Lovett’s soft belly and bony hips, the dark hair dusting his broad chest and between his legs. Tommy kisses the inside of Lovett’s knee and noses at his cock, takes in his warm, clean scent, feeling dizzy as he swoops between relief and anticipation.

If he had known, the first time they did this, that it would be his only chance to kiss Lovett, to touch him, he would have catalogued every single thing. He has lived with that regret, among others, and he won’t be so careless again. This time, he will appreciate every moment.

“Are you, ah, are you seriously not going to get undressed at all?,” Lovett says. His voice is husky and unfocused, and the sound of it snaps Tommy out of his meditation and goes straight to his cock.

Tommy smiles up at him. God, he looks good. “Is it working for you, Lovett?”

“It really is, I’m afraid,” Lovett says, twisting to pull the cord on the bedside lamp. “It goes along with your whole, your whole thing, you know . . .”

“My thing, what’s my thing?” He smiles and bites down gently on Lovett’s calf, making him yelp.

“ _That_ whole thing, you menace!” He groans. “Bossing me around, messing with me.”

This is news to Tommy, but he can have a whole thing if Lovett likes it.

“Messing with you, huh?” He grabs Lovett by his hips and yanks him roughly down to the edge of the bed. He considers teasing him a little, dragging it out. Tommy’s so keyed-up, though, he’s not sure he’ll last long if he does that. He wraps his lips around the head of Lovett’s cock and slides down, taking him deep, thrilling at his shocked little gasps.

Tommy is almost too overwhelmed to get a proper rhythm going, too undone by the weight and taste of Lovett’s cock in his mouth, but he tries to make it good in any case. He licks his palm and works a slick hand around the base, jacking him and sucking the tip, until Lovett’s bitten-off moans grow more desperate and higher-pitched.

He squeezes Tommy’s shoulder, warning that he’s close. In response, Tommy takes him as deep as he can and reaches under him to grip at Lovett’s his ass, pressing his fingertips hard into Lovett’s cheeks and pulling them apart slightly. Lovett gives a little sob and arches into Tommy’s mouth as he comes. It’s quieter than Tommy would have liked, just some choice profanity muffled by the arm Lovett has flung over his face.

Tommy swallows and pulls off slowly, pressing his wet mouth to Lovett’s thigh. He braces a hand against the mattress and stands up. He gently manhandles Lovett into a more comfortable position, so that he’s reclining on a truly baffling and superfluous number of pillows.

Tommy wants to cry at how good he looks, blissed out and sweaty against the soft sheets. As dazed as Lovett is, he watches intently as Tommy strips off his clothes and places them in a folded pile on the floor. Tommy wouldn’t have thought it was possible to be more turned on than he already is from blowing Lovett, but the hunger in Lovett’s gaze proves him wrong. He slides on top of him carefully, props himself on his fists to loom over Lovett and cage him in.

“Hi,” Tommy says, feeling a surge of fondness as he looks down at him.

“Hi,” says Lovett, and kisses him, slow and filthy. Tommy sighs and sinks down on top of him, the wet tip of his cock dragging against Lovett’s thigh. He presses as tight as he can against his warm, sweet body, rocking into him again and again, chasing friction and proximity. He kisses his slack mouth, his neck, his collarbone. Everything is Lovett, around him and through him, and then, too soon, Tommy is spilling between his soft thighs and calling his name, first in a shout and then in a whisper.

True to his word, Lovett wakes up in the morning and does not freak out even a little. He rants cheerfully about his Twitter mentions while he defrosts and toasts bagels. He even drives Tommy to the airport, glancing over and reaching to squeeze his hand at the stoplights, as if to reassure himself that Tommy is still there.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Just landed,_ Tommy texts Lovett as soon as his flight touches down at LAX.

Lovett replies immediately. He must have been following the updates for Tommy’s arrival time.

_Come straight to my place or else._

Tommy grins, helplessly charmed by Lovett’s enthusiasm. It’s been a week since they first hooked up, and he’s pretty eager to see Lovett as well. Seven days’ worth of increasingly dirty and promising texts are no substitute for the man himself.

His cab hits traffic almost immediately. Fucking L.A.

He passes the time by going deep into the archive of his new favorite romantic disaster podcast. After 45 minutes, Lovett texts him with a question mark.

 _Still stuck on the freeway,_ Tommy sends back.  _Don’t start without me ;)_

 _Can’t make any promises,_ Lovett replies.

Tommy groans and digs his nails into his leg. He hits the “next” button on the podcast app without checking the episode description.

“I’d like to welcome my good friend Jon Lovett to the program,” says the scratchy-voiced host, and Tommy startles. Lovett’s never mentioned he was on the show. Then again, the two of them have a lot of catching up to do.

“Lovett created the beloved cult classic 1600 Penn,” says the host, “and now he writes for The Newsroom. Before that, he worked in the White House as a speechwriter for President Obama, maybe you’ve heard of him. Lovett, thanks for being on The Worst I Ever Had.”

“It’s great to be here,” says Lovett.

Tommy checks the air date of the episode. It’s from 2014. That was just a year after they—after Tommy saw him the last time.

“So Lovett,” she says, “tell us about the worst _you_ ever had.”

“Okay, so first of all,” says Lovett,  “I just need you to understand that my whole point of reference for romantic disasters is like, look, ha, it’s all one long train wreck. It’s just a matter of how much wreckage we’re talking about.

“Like just to give you an example of my baseline, I’ll tell you a short story as a warmup. Not The Worst, just a regular Jon Lovett story, okay?”

For reasons he can’t identify, Tommy is filled with a sense of dread. 

“So I’m living in D.C., riding my electric scooter through the gates of the White House every day wearing a Darwin t-shirt. Just a gay Jew, embodying someone’s worst nightmare of the Obama presidency.

“At the time, I have this ridiculous crush on my straight friend. Just picture the straightest, most gentile, think of the, ha, like the cast of Sound of Music, the color beige come to life as a person. Not boring, though—clean cut and wholesome, but also kind of mean in a hot way? And I am a sucker for that kind of thing, as you well know.”

“I do,” the host breaks in.

“But this is, like, a hopeless pining situation, totally obvious, embarrassing for all involved. So much so that when I decide to move to L.A. for work, it’s like, you know. It’s not a the only factor, my crush on this guy, but it’s not _not_ a consideration, if you know what I mean.

“Okay. So I move out to L.A., and I still have a lot of friends who work at the White House. So sometimes I’ll go back to visit and help out, consult on speeches, whatever.

“On one of these trips, I go out drinking with a bunch of people, including this guy that I'm still, let’s face it, carrying a torch for.

“I get, like, so drunk, I’m just being ridiculous, teasing him and flirting with him, like, I live in L.A. now, I don’t even care anymore. And the crazy thing is, he goes for it! He makes a move on me and it’s like . . .

“Anyway, the point is. The next morning I get up, and he’s still asleep. I’m just watching him sleep, and I’m, you know, thrilled about it, but not sure how he’s going to react to what happened. I’m waiting for him to wake up, but it’s the worst timing, because I’d already committed to helping my ex pack up his apartment, for some reason.”

The host laughs. Tommy is gripping the strap of his messenger bag so hard that it hurts. 

“I told you: train wreck. So anyway, I have to go do that, and then fly back to L.A. the same day. And I have, seriously, the worst hangover of my life, completely brutal.

“So I’m downstairs in my old—in his apartment, waiting for him to wake up so we can talk it out and I can just get a sense of where he’s at with the whole thing, because I am _so_ on board.

“But get this: this guy just takes off, he completely disappears FROM HIS OWN APARTMENT, sneaks out while I’m talking to his roommate. And then he doesn’t answer his phone, he doesn't respond to my texts. The whole day, nothing. Until I finally just have to go catch my flight.

“And that’s it. I never hear from him. I kid you not, this guy, supposedly my good friend, never speaks to me again.”

”Wow,” says the host.

“Yeah,” Lovett says. “Anyway. You should maybe cut all that. The point is, that’s just to level-set for you, to give you an idea of what I’m used to dealing with, so you can understand the real reason why I’m on the podcast, which is to tell you how I ended up going home with, let’s call him the Guy With the Snake.”

***

That’s—Tommy rips out his earbuds, stares off into space. He feels sick. At first, it was cute listening to Lovett’s monologue, to hear him charming the host, carrying on in his grandiose self-deprecating style. It was even oddly compelling to hear about that night in D.C. from Lovett’s perspective, initially. But now he’s just furious.

Who the fuck does Lovett think he is to rewrite their history with himself as the aggrieved party? That’s _Tommy’s_ story, not his. Isn’t it bad enough that he slept with Tommy and instantly regretted it? He also gets to move out to Hollywood and revise what happened between them?

Is it possible that Lovett has actually convinced himself Tommy was the one who chickened out the next morning? How else could he have the audacity to pretend that he didn’t regret the whole thing, that he was just waiting to have a mature conversation with Tommy, that he never said—that Tommy never heard him say—that he didn’t—

The cab finally pulls onto Lovett and Jon’s street. Tommy wonders if he should drop his stuff at Jon and Em’s first, maybe take some time to cool down and get his thoughts sorted.

The truly miserable thing is that he doesn’t want to cool down. He wants Lovett.

He wants to tell him to fuck off, but he also really wants to put his mouth on Lovett’s neck and pull his curls and feel at home in the world again. Or maybe he wants to shake him a little, push him hard, make him explain himself.

Whatever, he’ll figure it out when he sees him. He pays for the cab and wheels his carry-on to Lovett’s door.

*** 

He means to bring it up right away, to clear things up before Lovett distracts him with all the things he’s been promising to do to Tommy all week. But as soon as he’s inside the house, all he can think about is kissing him. He can’t form a sentence or take a breath until he has Lovett in his arms, pushed back against the front door.

“Missed you so fucking much,” Lovett bites out as he arches up into Tommy’s embrace. He kisses him slowly and deliberately, one small hand on the back of Tommy’s neck, the other gripping his bicep with a hint of urgency.

“Same here,” says Tommy. “You have no idea.”

He wants to take in all of Lovett at once, to disappear into him and breathe in his skin. He drags his teeth along the rough edge of Lovett’s jaw, kisses his earlobe, presses his lips to his cheek. He kisses him again and again, sweetly, smooths back his hair and holds him close.

Maybe he could just keep this part, forget about everything else? They’ve made it this far without talking about the past.

“It’s really rude of you to live in San Francisco, you know,” says Lovett, pulling Tommy in by his hips and sliding an insistent leg between his thighs. “Just really inconsiderate.”

He doesn’t have to bring it up right now. Or at all, ever. He could let it go, could just take Lovett to bed and strip him down, hold him in place and draw all kinds of amazing sounds out of him. He could do that. He could taste every inch of his skin until his mind goes blissfully blank, until all that exists is right now. No D.C. and the morning after, just warm sunlight coming through the window of Lovett's bedroom.

It’s so tempting. He can’t drop it, though. Not really. Not forever. The doubt and resentment would eat at him, festering inside him until it would burst out sideways at the worst possible moment. He knows this much about himself.

Lovett is obliviously working on the buttons of Tommy’s shirt. “Wait,” Tommy says, and puts a hand to Lovett’s chest. God, his chest, his broad little—

“I listened to the podcast,” Tommy says, and waits for a reaction.

“Ugh,” Lovett says, “I don’t know how you can do that, I hate hearing a recording of my voice. I can’t listen. Jon and Emily always have it on in the house and I’m like, what is wrong with you. Anyway!” He loops his arms around Tommy’s neck and stretches up for a kiss, a kiss that Tommy gets lost in for a minute.

Lovett tastes so good, it makes him crazy. Maybe Tommy will just get him undressed a little first, tell him to get on his knees and—

“Wait, no, stop.” Tommy crosses the living room to sit on the sofa. He can’t stay focused with Lovett so close.

“Not that podcast. Your friend’s show. The Worst I Ever Had? Where you went on and told the whole world about hooking up with your asshole friend who ghosted you afterwards?” Tommy regards him carefully.

A look of surprise crosses Lovett’s face and disappears just as quickly, leaving him with a carefully neutral expression. He joins Tommy on the couch and folds his legs up under himself. He sighs and presses his fingertips against his eyelids.

“I was wondering if we were ever going to talk about it,” Lovett says, eyes still closed.

“Yeah, well,” Tommy scowls, “I would have been fine if we hadn’t, actually, but then you had to go on a podcast and tell everyone about it, so.” 

“To be fair,” Lovett says, turning to look at him, “I recorded that like two years ago, you stalker. And no one listens to that podcast except the host’s friends.” He smiles. “It’s not a hit like Keepin’ It 1600.”

Tommy smiles back, in spite of himself. “Maybe she should have you on her show more often.”

“Yeah well, I really need more of an incentive to show up to record,” Lovett says. “Like, just for example, a cohost whom I’m wildly attracted to.”

“Oh, only one?”

“Shut up.” Lovett swats his arm. “Everyone with a pulse is attracted to Jon Favreau. That has no bearing on the topic at hand. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Lovett. Jon.” Tommy reaches over and squeezes his hand. “I just don’t get it. If that’s how you felt, why did you freak out after we slept together?”

Lovett stares at him for a moment without speaking. He pulls his hand loose from Tommy’s grip. “What the fuck are you talking about? _I_ freaked out? Are you unwell? Do you have amnesia? Do I need to call your emergency contact? That is NOT what happened.”

Tommy’s anger, which had melted away in Lovett’s presence, flares up again at once. “What the hell? I _heard you_ talking to Cody the next morning. I know you regretted it.”

He expects Lovett to look chastened and caught out, but that’s not what happens. Lovett just keeps looking at him in confusion, and then something else, something like fury.

“Cody? Cody. Why the fuck would I talk about you to _Cody_? Now you’re just making shit up to justify acting like a total coward.” Yeah, Lovett is really mad, though Tommy can’t begin to understand why. Tommy's the one who deserves to be pissed.

“How can you deny it? I _heard_ you, Lovett!”

Tommy takes a deep breath. It hurts to remember waking up that morning. His bed, his whole room, had smelled like Lovett. He couldn’t wait to drag him back to bed, to tell him all the things he’d spent years not saying. He would make every minute count until Lovett had to get on the plane. He would drive him to the airport. He could visit him in L.A.

And then. Then he went downstairs, and he heard Lovett talking to Cody in the kitchen. At first, it sent a thrill through him just to hear Lovett’s voice in their home again. He thought back to the night before, Lovett whispering all kinds of things in his ear, coming apart in Tommy’s hands.

And then he actually heard what Lovett was saying.

He snaps back to the present, to Lovett next to him on the couch, impatient and incredulous.

“I heard you talking to Cody. You said,” he paused, bites out the hateful words, “you said ‘Never let me get that drunk again.’”

Lovett just looks at him, “Okay? So?”

That wasn’t the reaction Tommy was anticipating, honestly. He loses a little righteous momentum, but he keeps going.

“And then you said, “Why won’t anyone ever keep me from making terrible life decisions.’”

“I said that?”

“Yes.”

“To Cody.”

“Yeah.”

“I see.” Lovett's tone is icy, not filled with chastened remorse as Tommy expected. “And you interpreted that to mean I was talking about sleeping with you?”

“Yes?” What else could—

“Might I have possibly, just _possibly_ have been talking about something else?” Lovett says quietly.

Tommy feels a disorienting twinge of confusion, which just grows as Lovett keeps speaking.

“Could I have maybe been referring to, like, say, my decision to end up _massively_ hungover when I had promised to help Ronan pack up his apartment, and then get on a cross-country flight?” Lovett’s voice grows louder, his tone sharper, as he picks up speed. “Is it conceivable that was the non-Tommy-related disaster choice I was, you know, chatting about with Cody over fucking BREAKFAST DONUTS?”

Tommy takes this in. “So,” he swallows, “you weren’t filled with regret at sleeping with me?”

“What? No!” Lovett throws his hands up. “I was into you for years! It was literally the thing I wanted most in the world, the secret impossible embarrassing dream. And it happened. You kissed me and you took me to bed and you said all kinds of unbelievably sweet shit to me.”

He looks at Tommy. “And then you disappeared. And you didn’t speak to me for three years, until Jon made you sit in a studio with me.”

Tommy’s mind is reeling. He runs over the events of that morning in D.C., trying to make sense of this new perspective. He remembers the string of ignored text messages that came in as the day went on.

_Are you awake_

_Come downstairs_

_Did you go out_

_We should probably talk_

_Can you meet me for coffee_

_Seriously where the fuck are you_

_Are you in a ditch_

_Does D.C. even have ditches_

Tommy had kept that one even after he deleted all the rest.

_I’m leaving for the airport_

And finally

_Fuck you Tommy._

Suddenly, it seems possible that everything Lovett is telling him is true. And then, horribly, it feels more than possible, actually incredibly likely that he was the one who behaved very badly.

He’s had it backwards. He didn’t preemptively cut off Lovett before Lovett could reject him. No, Tommy slept with one of his best friends and then never spoke to him again because he misinterpreted an overheard conversation.

Tommy is now sure that is what happened. But that means—that Lovett liked him, too. He’s flooded with relief. It wasn’t just a drunken hookup for Lovett. Lovett was into him! Lovett _is_ into him, and now they can get past it and be together. Now they can—

“And even after all that,” Lovett says, his voice full of bitterness, “I still couldn’t stay away from you.”

“So it was just? Lovett! Just a stupid misunderstanding. Holy shit!” He surges forward to kiss Lovett, but Lovett is not kissing him back. He’s totally stiff and motionless. Tommy pulls back to look at him, confused. He’s missing something here.

“Let me get this straight,” Lovett says coolly. “Or, whatever. Never mind. You mean to tell me that you woke up, thought you heard me expressing remorse at hooking up with you, and you decided the best thing to do was to flee the premises and lose my fucking phone number?”

“I mean, not—“

“You couldn’t just talk to me about it? We were friends for years! We were roommates!”

“I thought—“

“I just assumed you were having a sexuality crisis!”

“What?” Tommy says. “How is that better?”

“I don’t know! It just is! I figured you needed some space to work things out. And it hurt like hell, Tommy, but I took the hint.” Lovett stares at his hands.

“That’s not—“

“And meanwhile,” Lovett says, “meanwhile, you’re just snooping around corners and decoding conversations and making up a whole drama in your head.”

That can’t be right. “I guess so.”

“Do you realize what that day was like for me, Tommy?” His voice is still angry, but now Tommy hears everything else—the sadness, the confusion, the betrayal. He did that to Lovett.

“I went over to Ronan’s, supposedly to help him move,” Lovett says. “I ended up ranting to him and crying like an idiot and checking my phone a hundred times, waiting for you to get in touch.”

“Oh no,” says Tommy.

“Oh yes. It took me _months_ to be okay again, Tommy. It’s not like I just got over you and went on a podcast to make fun of myself about it,” Lovett says. “The humor came later. That was the scar tissue.

“I get that,” Tommy says, because he has no idea what else he can say.

“Oh great,” Lovett hisses. “Just wonderful. I’m glad you get it. You get it so much that you think you can just come back into my life with your smile and your arms and your stupid historical miscellanea. And I guess you’re right. But you can’t just kiss me and say it was all a misunderstanding.”

“I’m not—“

“That’s all I wanted _forever,_ Tommy.”

“I wanted it forever, too,” Tommy says quietly.

Lovett laughs meanly. “Fuck that,” he says. He walks over to the front door, glancing pointedly at Tommy’s weekend bag.

“Lovett.”

“I think. I think you should leave.”

“Can’t we just—“

“No we cannot.” He’s not even looking at Tommy. He’s staring at the floor, arms folded. “Just go, Tommy. Go back to Jon’s house. I can’t be with you right now.”

***

He stays in San Francisco that week and calls into the pod. It’s easy enough to let Jon do all  the work of guiding their discussion. He thinks Lovett sounds more subdued than usual, but maybe that’s just him projecting.

He’s been questioning all his interpersonal interactions since their blowout. He wonders what other assumptions he’s been making about people’s feelings. So maybe he’s misreading Lovett’s mood in the recording session. Maybe Lovett’s just relieved to have Tommy gone.

He texts Lovett after they hang up the call. _Good to hear your voice. Would love to talk when you’re ready._

He jumps at his text alert, but it’s just Emily telling him that she signed for the package of toiletries he shipped to their house last week, when he assumed he was going to be staying there a lot.

 _Our guest room is officially the Tommy suite lol,_ she writes, and he sends her a kiss emoji.

Finally, Lovett responds. _I’ll let you know._

The week passes without another message from Lovett. Tommy flies down to L.A. the day before the livestream and joins Jon and Em for brunch with Andy and Molly. He feels awkward and gloomy amidst all the happy couple vibes. Emily keeps shooting him concerned glances. He shrugs at her and tries to act more lively.

Later, she corners him as he’s coming in from a trip to the Jon’s gym. “I don’t want to get involved,” she holds up a hand, “I mean it, seriously. But I think you should know that my neighbor across the street has been moping around his house all week and ordering a LOT of Postmates. He might need some attention.”

“Not from me,” Tommy shakes his head. “I really screwed things up with him.”

“This feels like a conversation you should be having with him, not with me,” Emily says.

Tommy sighs. “No, you’re right.” He squeezes her arm and goes back outside, sits down on the porch step. He looks across the street to Lovett’s house. The lights are on and Lovett’s car is in the driveway, but Tommy can’t catch a glimpse of Lovett through the living room window.

What if Tommy had been brave and direct after that first night with Lovett? What if he hadn’t been so caught up in his own head, so intent on avoiding rejection. Where would they be now? What might have happened next?

What might happen now? It’s probably too late for them, but he has to try to make it right.

He pulls out his phone and starts to text Lovett, then reconsiders and opens an email window instead.

_Hey. You said you can’t be with me. I don’t know if you meant just last week, or forever, or what. But I’m done assuming I know how you feel. I’m just going to say some things and see what happens._

_You said on the podcast that what happened between us was just your baseline romantic disaster. That makes sense. One of the best things about you is how reckless you are, how you throw yourself into things and take risks and expose yourself to disappointment and failure._

_I’m not like you. I wish I was. More reckless, less cautious. I never risk anything._

_You are my only disaster._

_This thing we have, whatever it is, it didn’t start for me that night in D.C. I realize now it was the same for you, but I didn’t get it then. I didn’t understand until you moved out that I was in love with you. Just, really, desperately loved you and needed you in my life._

_So I was ready to be disappointed. I was sure you would reject me because I wanted you so much. Everything clicked into place for me when we hooked up, and it was fucking terrifying._

_You’re right. I made up a whole drama in my head, and I completely missed what I was doing to you. I only saw myself. That’s on me, and I am so incredibly sorry._

_I don’t know what else to say. I fucked up, I made assumptions, and I hurt you. I’m sorry. I would do anything to make it better._

Tommy reads over the email, sends it, and pockets his phone. He stands up and stretches, turns to go back in the house, when his text alert buzzes.

_Are you seriously sitting on the porch like a creep and writing to me while you look in my window?_

And then

_Come over, dumbass._

Tommy’s heart is hammering when Lovett opens the door and steps aside to let him in. They stand looking at each other without speaking. Lovett looks so small, his arms folded tight around his chest. His hair is out of control and ridiculous, and he looks miserable.

“You loved me?”

Tommy nods.

“You were in love with me?” His voice rises sharply at the end.

Tommy runs his hand over his face and looks at Lovett. This is the worst, and he hates it, but he can absolutely do it, if it will make things even a little bit better for Lovett.

“Of course I was,” he says. “I thought that was obvious.”

“Nothing is obvious, Tommy!” Lovett is shouting at him, but there’s no anger in his voice. “You have to say things!” 

“Yeah, no, you’re right,” Tommy says. “I’m going to say things now. I won’t make you guess.”

“Okay,” says Lovett, in a slightly less shouty voice. “Okay.”

“Listen,” he says, planting his hands firmly on Lovett’s shoulders, “I’m in love with you, and you should probably know,” he draws a sharp breath. “I want you to know that I have no intention of getting over it, ever.”

He holds Lovett’s gaze, even as it feels like he’s splitting open.

Lovett just looks at him. The silence stretches out unbearably. Tommy wishes Lovett would say something, anything.

Maybe it’s too much—all their history, the pain he caused Lovett, the intensity of Tommy’s feelings. Maybe he should stop trying to make his case and let Lovett move on without him

He glances down and notices, for the first time, what Lovett’s wearing. Tommy’s heart jumps as he recognizes it.

“Is that my sweatshirt?”

Lovett looks down, pulls the worn fabric out to examine it.

“Yeah. Well, it was. I borrowed it when we lived together, and it moved to L.A. with me.” Lovett shrugs.

”It moved with you?”

”Yep,” Lovett nods, suppressing a smile.

”And you kept it,” Tommy says.

“Sure did.”

Tommy lets this information sink in. He sees it now. Lovett wearing his sweatshirt in 1309. Packing it up as he prepared to leave D.C. Continuing to wear it in L.A., even after what Tommy did. Keeping a part of Tommy close to him.

“So, Lovett,” he says, his chest aching with something suspiciously like hope, “does that mean . . . If you’re still hanging onto my old shirt, does that mean you’re not . . . ready to let me go?”

He looks at Tommy and sighs.

“Well, yeah, I mean. Obviously.” 

“Nothing is obvious, Lovett,” Tommy says, pulling him closer. “You have to say things.”

“In that case,” Lovett says, stroking Tommy’s cheek, “I should probably tell you that I’m in love with you, too.

“That’s—that’s good,” Tommy says. He tilts his head down slowly, giving Lovett one more chance to pull back, but he stays right where he is and wraps his arms tight around Tommy’s waist.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Tommy murmurs against Lovett’s mouth.

“I think you’d better be prepared to do a lot more than that,” Lovett says. “We’re in love, after all.”

Tommy kisses him and smiles and kisses him again. He _is_ prepared to do a lot more than that. Anything, really. Especially if it’s risky.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think in the comments and then come be my friend on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/justlikesomuch).
> 
> 2\. The kernel of morning-after rejection in this story (pining over someone, finally hooking up and then hearing them say “don’t ever let me get that drunk again”) is a true thing that happened to my friend in high school. It has been rattling around in my obsessive writer head for OVER TWENTY YEARS, long after the people involved have probably forgotten about it. So I wrote my friend a happy ending to his youthful humiliation.


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